


Across the Pond

by errandofmercy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Camping, Coming Out, Coming Untouched, Innocence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Modern Era, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/errandofmercy/pseuds/errandofmercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas, only son of the last Earl of Mirkwood, finally convinces his father to grant him one year to explore the world outside of his father's estate. He travels across the pond to the American city of Edan, where fate and a lost bow bring him face-to-face with his first real friend and his own late-blooming sexuality. Fluff and humor with a cherry (yes, that kind) on top.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across the Pond

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all the folks at the Gigolas Big Bang for your wonderful contributions, and to my beloved Tumblr followers for suggestions, music recs, and the general silliness that led to this fic. <3 This was written in a bit more of a hurry than I would have liked, so if you see any SPAG or formatting errors, or would like to leave constructive criticism, please let me know!

Legolas looked through the window at the vast, unbroken sky. The other passengers in the First Class compartment were sound asleep in their recumbent chairs, but he found that his eyes would not stay closed. Though there was a good selection of in-flight movies and a stack of magazines unopened in his pack, he found he preferred the mesmerizing view of endless stars and cirrus clouds. Their twinkling light shifted almost imperceptibly with the movement of the airplane, while the sky undulated between hues of deep indigo and jet black. It was one comfort of home that he had not had to leave behind.

 

The roar of the engines and buzz of other passengers’ headsets warred for Legolas’ attention with the keening of a colicky infant. Bored and stiff, he tucked his unbraided hair behind his ear and shifted in what little room he had. The flight was a long one. It would feel like lunchtime to his jet-lagged mind, but dawn would just be breaking over New York when he touched down. After a long day of packing and saying his good-byes, a sleepless night in the air and another day of getting his bearings in the States, he knew he would be knackered. It would be well worth it, though. Soon he would be able to lay his head on a bedstead not laced with centuries of history and lore, to be free from the tramp of servants’ footsteps as he dozed, to wake with the sun on his face and not the well-meaning consternation of his father. No one would know his comings and goings here lest he wish it; no one would bow to him and no one would expect of him anything but common courtesy. Traveling through Heathrow had only been a foretaste – the mere recollection of it curled Legolas’ lips.

 

He rested his chin in the palm of his hands and continued his fond study of the bejeweled sky. Hope and excitement brimmed in his belly like rain spilling from a flower, and he felt the absurd urge to laugh. After passing nearly three decades in the gilded cage of Greenwood, the doors had finally been opened. The world was waiting, in all its chaos and color and blissful uncertainty. He did not know what he would find when he landed. He only knew that it would be wonderful.

 

* * *

 

 

The plane touched down. It was close to midday, and a stifling late-summer sun quickly turned the interior of the plane into a solar cooker. The cabin filled with eddies of stale air as sleepy, rumpled passengers righted themselves and fussed with their baggage. Legolas drummed his fingers on the armrest. There wasn't much for him to put in order, just his pack and the light jumper he'd rolled into a makeshift pillow. He'd been wide awake all night, but he felt invigorated. The strange, distant skyline made his heart flutter.

As he disembarked with the herd, a wave of strange air wafted over his head, thick with engine exhaust and soured by the congestion of people. He wrinkled his nose. It was nothing like the sweet earthiness of the breezes that wafted through his windows back home. But he had not come to the States for the air. Through a paneled corridor and down a bustling set of escalators, he made his way to Baggage Claim to pick up the rest of his belongings .

 

“Welcome to Edan: Paradise on Earth!” proclaimed a brightly-colored banner overhead as he scanned the monitor for his flight number. He had never seen so many people together at once, except on the telly – the confusion and the unfamiliar press of bodies made his head spin. Beneath the intermittent din of the airport PA, people yammered in so many different languages that his sensitive ears rang. He politely dodged a pair of sprinting, shrieking children and reminded himself with a steadying breath that the chaos and bustle was what had attracted him in the first place.

 

The baggage carousel didn't take long to cough up his suitcases, unmistakable in their sage-green leather. But something was missing. Something more important than all the other clothes and knickknacks he had brought with him. Legolas took a steadying breath and tried to cap the sudden surge of panic that seized him. He watched patiently as the other travelers picked their bags off the belt, until the empty carousel ground to a halt. Against the suede straps of his luggage, his palms grew damp.

 

His bow. They had lost his sodding bow.

 

* * *

 

The TSA officer, a tanned, graying woman whose curves were hidden unflatteringly under a boxy uniform, sidled toward the airport cafe where Legolas waited. One look at her stoic expression told him what he had already guessed, but he was too tired to interrupt. “I'm sorry, sir,” she began, “but there's no sign of your... item in the airline database. Either it was misfiled or it never got entered into the system at all.” She held out a clipboard and a pen that felt slightly greasy. “If you'll fill this out with your contact information, we'll give you a call if anything turns up.”

 

Legolas completed the form, trying to hang on to his fraying composure. At first he had felt only anger at the incompetent staff, back when he had been certain his bow would be found. But as it became more and more apparent that it really had disappeared, his fury had withered into child-like misery. He knew he could order a replacement. He could even have a metalworker replicate the engravings and embellishments that his father had designed. But it wouldn't be the same. He signed his name and set his jaw against the threat of tears. “I still can't believe the airline doesn't take any responsibility for this sort of thing,” he said, throat tight.

 

The officer shrugged as he handed back the form. “In this day and age, nobody wants to take responsibility.” Her eyes flicked over the paper and, when she seemed satisfied, favored him with a sympathetic glance. “We'll make sure to call if we find anything, but between you and me, I wouldn't get your hopes up.” She tucked the pen back into her breast pocket. “Enjoy your stay in Edan.”

 

Legolas heaved a sigh and watched her disappear behind a slate-gray service door. His phone showed that it was 4:00 PM – he had spent nearly eight hours in the airport since his plane landed. The buzzing fluorescent lights, prepackaged junk food, and hours repeating himself to airport security had left him feeling desiccated and homesick. He flicked through his call history and noticed that his father had tried to reach him while he had been in the TSA office. Just thinking of the sheer distance between him and Thranduil's comforting arms nearly made him sob. How pathetic – at nearly twenty-eight years old could he think of nothing to do save crying to Ada? No, he couldn't give his father the satisfaction of seeing him unravel so early. It would only make his appeals to come home more tempting, and his irritating 'I-told-you-so' tone more bruising. He rose stiffly and tried to ignore the pounding in his head as he collected his bags and headed for the exit. The world keep turning, whether he had his bow or not, and his driver wouldn't wait forever.

 

After a dizzying ride through the darkening streets of downtown Edan, the driver finally pulled into the driveway of a tall, stately villa. He helped Legolas lug his bags into the foyer, and after collecting a hefty tip for the long delay, took his leave. Legolas briefly took in the manicured lawn and the twilit glimmer of a fountain, but he did not bother to go exploring. Inside, the building smelled of fresh paint and carpet, and a whiff of newly-installed cedar cupboards hit him on his way to find the loo. But he couldn't be arsed to go from room to room appraising the décor and the furniture, not yet. He didn't even want to look up a place for dinner – the long flight and interminable search for his bow had drained him of all excitement. Disappointed in his lack of adventurousness but not altogether surprised, he dug through his suitcase until he found some pajamas and sank immediately into bed.

 

* * *

 

The next morning was quite a departure from the protracted frustration of the previous day. Legolas woke to a warm sunbeam coming through the bedroom skylight onto his cheek. The search for food (he had forgotten that there would be no one to cook his breakfast) eventually drove him out of the house and into the street. He made his way down the sidewalk, glancing at the sidewalk signs and shop windows for for a decent-looking breakfast.

 

If the drive from the airport had been any indication, the city of Edan had its busy arteries, but Legolas' new neighborhood was a pinnacle of precious gentrification. The avenue was peppered with niche restaurants, art galleries, and boutiques selling everything from secondhand furniture to ornate glass pipes. Legolas was drawn in by the earthy, savory aroma wafting from a particular establishment – it reminded him at once of home. He soon found himself standing in a queue of tattooed, ironically shabby hipsters and hypoglycemic yoga practitioners. He mumbled his order to the swarthy cashier and was presented in short order with a steaming bundle of vegetables and pale, ersatz chicken. While hunting for a place to sit, he spied a community bulletin board and plucked a tourist map from its array of pamphlets and brochures.

 

The food filled Legolas' belly, but he paid little attention - gastronomy had never been one of his hobbies, much to his father's dismay. Besides, he was much more intent on studying the map of Edan in its glossy, awkwardly-unfurled entirety. His keen eyes flicked over the paper, tracing a route from his neighborhood to the city center, and outward to the sloping hills of Edan's suburbs. Upon one of these hills a small, white shield was etched, bearing the letters R.A. in swirling script. A smile curled Legolas' lips – the legend confirmed his suspicions, proclaiming the site to be the location of the prestigious Rivendell Academy.

 

In two days' time, he would head up toward the green hills to claim his first “real” job – another favor from Ada, who had done his best to humor him. Headmaster Elrond, a kind old man and a close friend of his father's, had been all too happy to take on a temporary physical education teacher. It seemed he was willing to overlook Legolas' lack of credentials for the promise of giving his students an absolutely killer archery class. Like a pang of phantom pain, Legolas suddenly realized he no longer had his bow – he would, degradingly, have to borrow an ordinary one from the Academy's supply. He folded up the map with a sigh and resolved to call Ada the moment he got back to the house. That replacement could not come soon enough.

 

By mid-afternoon, he was once again walking up the still-unfamiliar driveway, arms laden with shopping bags and a svelte new celadon scarf draped about his neck. This time, he shrugged the bags onto the stoop and took a moment to admire the quaint façade and subtle horticulture of his new home. The bubbling pond would be a perfect place for an afternoon kip, and the modest hedgerows, bristling with lavender and cyclamen, would conceal him well enough from passers-by. But first, he had to speak with Ada.

 

The groceries and fruits of his retail therapy (a new pair of calfskin boots, a camera to document his adventure, and a healthy supply of wine) were heaped carelessly on the floor as Legolas swept upstairs to the study where his laptop waited. It was not long before the familiar lines of his father's study came into view, and Thranduil's face looked out at him from across the pond with bittersweet recognition.

Legolas had always fancied that looking at his father was like looking into a mirror at a slightly sterner, colder version of himself. Thranduil had given him his good looks – a trait of which he was constantly reminded, due to his father's vanity – but there was a distance in his eyes that Legolas would never be able to imitate. Although his father treasured him like a priceless artifact, it was not unknown for a sliver of malice or a spray of anger to flash in those eyes like shattering ice. Legolas had not inherited his father's temper, or at least he would never admit to it. Now, though, his father's face crinkled like the textured silk of his housecoat; above all else, he was happy to see his son again.

 

“ _Ionneg_ ,” Thranduil crooned. The rich timbre of his voice was distorted by the microphone, but it still brought a flood of comfort into Legolas' shoulders. “You should have called sooner. I was beginning to worry.” His father crossed his legs regally and tilted his head back upon his ornate leather armchair.

 

“I'm sorry, Ada,” Legolas replied. “It was a long flight, and I was tired. There's been some bad news, though.” Thranduil's eyes narrowed. “Somehow, between Heathrow and here, they lost my bow.” Legolas let out a long sigh while his father, incensed, began to bluster.

 

“ _What?_ ” he demanded, his gaze hardening like diamond. “How could they have _lost_ it? It's a great arsing longbow! Legolas, this must be rectified, I'm appalled that you didn't handle it right then and there-”

 

“Ada, I tried!” Legolas protested. “I did everything I could. It just wasn't there.” He noticed that his voice was taking on a familiar, whiny tone – that of a spoiled child. He was too old for this, he knew, and yet the habits of his prolonged adolescence were hard to break.

 

Thranduil gave a skeptical huff. “I will have whoever was responsible for the so-called  _loss_ – more likely theft – sacked and blacklisted for the rest of their miserable lives.” He smoothed his long, citrine hair – a compulsive habit born of vanity as much as stress. “But that doesn't solve the problem. You're going to need a replacement. You can't very well walk into Rivendell without a proper  _bow._ And there's no way I'm going to let you use one of Elrond's cheap Chinese knock-offs.” 

 

A crooked smile lit Legolas' face. “I knew you wouldn't.”

 

Thranduil pulled his phone from a silken pocket and flipped intently through it until he found what he wanted. Then he leveled his gaze at his son, apology and pragmatism warring on his features. “It won't be the same, you know,” he said, his voice suddenly tender. “I suppose you could have a metalworker re-create my old designs, but it would have to be somebody pretty damn good. I highly doubt there's anyone in your new little town of sufficient _caliber._ ”

 

Legolas realized that he was probably right, but he tried to hang on to hope. “I will try,” he said with less conviction than he wished. “I still have your sketches. It's strange, but I never appreciated how beautiful it was until it was taken from me.”

 

A shadow passed over his father's face. “I felt quite the same way about your mother,” he said softly. Then he straightened, the crisp regal countenance falling over his features once more. “I'm glad you're safe,  _ionneg_ . Stay out of trouble. And don't be late for work on Monday or that poncy Elrond will never let me live it down.” Stern and unselfconscious, he blew a kiss toward the screen. Legolas was unable to suppress an infantile grin at the gesture, and when the screen went blank, he closed the warm laptop and lay his head upon it, wishing for a moment that it had been more than a pantomime. 

 

* * *

 

The tourist map, now dog-eared and fraying from a week of heavy examination, now lay tucked into the pocket of Legolas' green Gucci shoulder bag. It had led him dutifully down the bustling avenues of Edan's shopping district to the front of a small, dusty-looking shop. “DURIN'S DEPOT” was bolted above the door, a clever arrangement of rivets that did not immediately reveal themselves as letters. Behind the leaded glass windows sat a variety of practical gadgets, tooled leatherwork and custom tools wrought of black iron and buttery brass. Legolas scanned the display with a frown – none of the wares on display bore the sophistication his project required. Then a dull strip of silver caught his eye, half-hidden beneath a stray drop cloth in the back corner of the display. He leaned closer and pressed his forehead against the glass. It was a medieval sword, a claymore – bejeweled and engraved with tracery so elegant and painstaking it briefly stole his breath. This must be the place, then. But why was that beautiful thing thrown off to the side in favor of such mundane appliances? Fighting off a wave of skepticism, he edged his way through the heavy front door.

 

The shop bell chimed as he entered, then jangled again as his parcel got stuck in the closing door and once more as he tried to gingerly remove it. He looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the embarrassing spectacle, but the interior of the shop was empty. Behind the low wooden counter, he could make out a hodgepodge of half-finished projects, smoldering kilns and ovens, and oddly short workbenches strewn with paraphernalia. The shop floor spanned about a hundred meters, after which the building receded into a low-lit labyrinth of tool storage. It was rather inconsiderate that the touted “best craftsmen in Edan” didn't bother to watch for customers.

 

A grunt from somewhere below him made Legolas start, a rare occurrence. From behind the counter peeked a frizzy ginger head, impossibly low and frowning at him quizzically. Too stout and muscular to be a sufferer of dwarfism, the man emerged into the dim light of the shop.  His woolly, rosy-cheeked face was split by a wide nose and bore a pair of green eyes that glittered with cranky intelligence. Beneath his wild hair and braided beard, Legolas could see the sheen of large plastic gauge earrings dangling from his distended ears. What little of his neck was visible behind the spray of hair was inked with tattoos that looked like Viking runes. Worst of all, Legolas felt oddly, impossibly drawn to him. He wondered if the solvents in the air were addling his brain.

 

The... _employee_  eyed the parcel in Legolas' arms, wrapped carefully in brown paper and twine. Without so much as a wink to Legolas, he opened his small mouth and bellowed.

 

“DA! THE GIRL FROM MERRY'S IS HERE WITH LUNCH!”

 

He then retracted his head and disappeared from view. Legolas took a small step forward, color rising in his cheeks. He looked down and saw that the man had resumed the project he had been silently working on when Legolas entered. He appeared completely oblivious to his mistake, or to the notion that he might owe Legolas any further communication. Legolas couldn't decide if it was the sudden,  _completely unwelcome_ flush of desire that was giving him cotton-mouth or the absurdity of his being mistaken for a lady, but he found it suddenly difficult to speak.

 

“Erm, I, ah-” Legolas stammered, not sure if he'd been insulted or if the man was merely painfully nearsighted. From where he sat, hunched over a pile of tattered receipts and work orders, Legolas could just make out the glint of a badge on the lapel of his sweat-and-grease-stained polo: GIMLI. What kind of a name was _that?_ “Excuse me, Mr. Gimli, I-”

 

Gimli looked up at him without turning his head away from his work. “If he doesn't come out in five minutes just leave it,” he groused. “I'll fax over the payment later. He's probably in the john.”

 

Legolas huffed, deciding that he had definitely been insulted. He channeled a bit of his father's famous indignation to take control of the conversation once more. “I beg your pardon, but this is a replica of a priceless family heirloom,” he said firmly. “I am not about to just _leave_ it in the hands of some absent-minded tinker sight unseen!” 

 

Gimli's eyes widened and his bushy ginger eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. It seemed he had realized that he was not, indeed, speaking to the girl from Merry's, wherever that was. He stared levelly for a long moment, and it was all Legolas could do not to squirm under the sudden scrutiny. Then Gimli looked down at the package again. “So that isn't a large Dagwood sub tray, extra horsey mayo and hold the pickles, with five orders of curly fries and two 2-liters of root beer?” he deadpanned.

 

“It's a bow,” Legolas replied, as close to seething as he would ever get. “And I'm a –“ he gestured in frustration at his flat chest, “a customer!”

 

“Oops.” Gimli carefully pushed the pile of receipts aside, apparently not sensing the dire need for an apology. “Well, let's see it.” He held out two small, meaty hands that Legolas could not believe capable of wielding a pencil, much less a jeweler's chisel.

 

Legolas grasped the package tighter, feeling a sudden surge of protectiveness. He leveled his gaze at Gimli, which was actually quite difficult due to the extreme height difference. “I'd like to speak to your supervisor,” he ground out. To his dismay, rather than complying, Gimli merely gave a sarcastic chuckle.

 

“Even if he was here, I doubt he'd take the time,” he responded, a twinge of bitterness in his voice. “You see, Da doesn't 'do' ornamentals. If it's industrial, architectural, even military, fine – but if it's a bow you're dealing with, you'd best stick with me.” Gimli crossed his arms over his broad chest in a gesture that seemed defiant and a bit smug. “I'm the best historical prop fabricator in the northeast,” he said, “not that I get any bleedin' credit for it.”

 

Legolas' grip loosened on the parcel. “It's not a prop,” he said finally, handing it to Gimli with great reluctance. He watched intensely as Gimli unwrapped the brown paper and sized up the long arc of rosy, lovingly polished wood.

 

Gimli ran his fingers along the length of the bow with something that Legolas happily recognized as wonder. “No, indeed,” he whispered. “Looks fully functional to me. But there's next to nothing going on in Edan for archers. What on earth are you going to do with it?”

 

“It's for sport.” Legolas could tell by the quirk of a smile and the flickering of the man's eyes that he was already thinking of ways to embellish the shaft. The thought lifted the film of irritation from Legolas' heart, and he felt a pleasant rush of eagerness. “I'm... a teacher. At the Rivendell Academy.”

 

“Working for Elrond, eh?” Gimli chuckled to himself, as if he'd been reminded of some private joke. “ He's been in here before, you know. Had some ridiculous sword that got smashed to pieces...” He straightened and pulled out a blank work order form on an old-fashioned piece of carbon paper. “Anyway, why don't you give me the details – what are you looking for, how soon, price range, et cetera. I'll get you a quote in the morning and we can go from there.”

 

Legolas arched his back and reached into his back trouser pocket to extract the folded-up sketches he'd printed from his father's files. Gimli's face lit up the moment the drawings met his eyes – he nearly snatched them as Legolas began his explanation. Legolas bent over the counter, gesturing eagerly while Gimli watched and scribbled down notes. “Well, you see, the old bow had this vine motif with vines curling around the grips, but I was thinking that this time we could add some more...“

 

* * *

 

Legolas' first weeks at the Academy passed in a whirlwind of training and paperwork. Although Rivendell was similar to his home in Mirkwood, with its shady, tree-lined paths and quiet corridors, Legolas found the blur of new faces and expectations overwhelming. However, it was in his nature to please, and he quickly found his stride as the hip but slightly absent-minded outdoor rec teacher. The students at Rivendell came from far and wide – some starched and polished trust fund babies like Legolas, some pulled from charter schools or rescued from the academic doldrums of public education by their GPAs and savvy teachers. Despite their polyphonous upbringings, though, they all had one thing in common – they were incurable tree-huggers. Elrond's curriculum eschewed the rigorous boredom of the Northeastern states' mandates, opting instead for a range of classes that deepened this passion for conservation and preservation. These kids would become the sustainable farmers, water purification engineers, and endangered species protectors of the next generation, but before that, they also needed some time to have fun. Legolas' job, besides teaching wilderness survival skills and a handful of sports, was to give them a chance to burn off their extra energy and enjoy the outdoors they were so avidly learning to protect.

 

Legolas discovered that spending time with children was a lot easier (and more enjoyable) than being around adults. While Elrond and his staff (which included his three children, only slightly younger than Legolas) seemed to find him something of a curiosity, the students welcomed him immediately as one of their own. It was probably for the best, he thought – he was more at home starting chicken fights by the boathouse and getting into heated arguments about which Jedi would win in a battle than in sipping bitter martinis with Arwen and the twins, anyway. Though it would have been nice if they'd invited him once, at least.

 

The bows Elrond had supplied for the outdoor rec class were not, as his father had predicted, 'cheap Chinese knock-offs', but rather the products of the kind of sustainable industries of which Elrond was a patron, stockholder, and talent scout. They were functional, bland affairs, carved out of bamboo and finished with hemp oil. The name and crest of the Academy were burned lightly into the wood in curling script. Legolas had the distinct impression that they had been purchased with his father's approval, or, possibly, his funds. He did not mind the feel of the soft, young wood under his fingers, and the children adored them, displaying a decidedly mature level of care during their classes. But Legolas missed his own bow. Being young, single, and only partially employed, he found he had a great deal of discretionary time, which he split between hanging about the Academy grounds and shamelessly badgering the employees of Durin's Depot.

 

“Look, mister, you can call as many times as you want, it's not going to make the work go any faster!” The raspy, cantankerous voice of Oin filled Legolas' bare sitting room. Thus far, he had been unable to communicate to the man that it was, in fact, Gimli whom he desired to speak with, and Oin had become increasingly adamant that they didn't have any orders for a 'Robin Hood costume'. Legolas hoped that he was hard of hearing, but suspected that he might simply be a prick.

 

“Can – I – speak – to – GIMLI – _please_?” he nearly shouted, enunciating each word as if to a small child. There was a brief pause.

 

“Gimli, you say? Well, why didn't you just say so? He's right here!” Legolas sighed while a number of clanks and scuffles announced the passing of the phone. He heard Gimli clear his throat.

 

“Hello? Who is this?”

 

Legolas felt a sudden, absurd surge of excitement as his ears recognized the slight brogue of Gimli's voice. He could not suppress a smile. “The girl from Merry's” he answered, surprising himself with his boldness. For a minute, there was silence, and Legolas cringed inwardly. Then a thunderous laugh rang out on the other end of the line.

 

“Of course it is,” Gimli said, still chuckling. “I'll have you know she showed up fifteen minutes after you did, so I wasn't too far off. What do you need?”

 

“I just wanted to see how things were going.” Legolas stretched out on the plush carpet and closed his eyes as Gimli began to regale him with a thorough, if slightly overzealous progress report. While Gimli talked, his mind wandered, and he imagined Gimli slaving over the forge, applying the tiny filaments of metal to wood with meticulous care. The thought made his belly feel decidedly warm.

 

“You asked for a rush job, so I've done nothing but eat, sleep, and breathe this project for the last five days. I tried to come in on Saturday but Da went on a fishing trip and took the damn keys with him. I've done all the metalwork and I wood-burned the designs you showed me on either end – why did you need so many tiny-ass leaves? I nearly burned my fingers off!”

 

Legolas could hear the warmth behind the man's bluster. “Well,” he teased, “I can always take my business elsewhere if it's too much of a challenge...”

 

“Oh, I can do it,” Gimli scoffed. “There's no one better this side of the state line. Besides, it's nearly done. Just waiting for that damn linseed oil to cure'll take another two days. Then I have to sand everything down. How does Friday sound?”

 

“Friday sounds lovely,” Legolas replied. He had the ludicrous feeling that he was agreeing to a date. “You close at five o'clock, right?”

 

Gimli hesitated. “Uh... could you come by a bit after that? I'd rather show you the finished product without having to listen to Da and Uncle Oin's snickering.”

 

Legolas snickered. “They won't be snickering when they see the bill,” he said. “I hope you keep the lion's share for yourself.”

 

Gimli only barked out a short laugh. “Six o'clock?”

 

“Brilliant. See you then.”

 

After the call ended, Legolas lay for a few moments on the soft carpet, savoring the images his mind had conjured. He knew he should feel guilty for picturing Gimli's stout fingers as they etched his father's designs and massaged the spicy oil into the finished wood. He knew he should crush the heat that was pooling in his groin as he lay in the sun, rather than relishing it. But he was alone, far away from Ada and his talk of pedigrees and breeding and inheritance. Surely one little wank in the privacy of his own home couldn't get him into trouble...

 

* * *

 

 

The verdant, manicured gardens and lawns of the Rivendell Academy added a sense of age and grandeur to the hilly outskirts of Edan; their beauty drew joggers and pedestrians on improbable detours and, occasionally, stopped traffic. There was something about the tall, sun-bleached columns of the main drive and the clusters of flowering trees that reminded people of a gentler time. Despite its appeal, though, Gimli had passed it a hundred times before – he had no _good_ reason to linger at the edge of the sidewalk on this particular afternoon. He shouldn't even have come this way – he had only left work early because Bofur was waiting for him with a busted sump pump and the promise of a cold six afterward, but his house was in entirely the opposite direction. But kind as Bofur was, given the choice between bailing out a musty basement and catching a glimpse of his new client on the job, Gimli had opted for the less practical, more desirable route. 

 

The attraction had been instantaneous – as soon as he realized that the blond beauty behind the counter was not in fact the salty sandwich wench from across the street, but a British pretty-boy with deep pockets and an adorable blush, it was all over. Gimli prided himself on his ability to mask his feelings – in his family, it was a goddamn survival trait – but behind his businesslike manner he had felt an infatuation that bordered on wonder. That liquefying accent, that flustered little mouth, those ridiculous, old-fashioned heirloom designs... rush order or not, they had dominated his thoughts from the minute the job had started. He felt a little chagrined coming by Rivendell like this, unannounced and probably unrecognizable after their brief, solitary meeting, but it wasn't as if he could actually ask Legolas out anyway. He could barely get out from under the family yoke long enough to grab a beer or an episode of _Game of Thrones_ , much less cultivate a romance which would cause a stir in his family at best and a feud at the worst. Besides, he didn't even know if they batted for the same team. Maybe he was just an impossibly feminine straight boy...

 

Something deep in Gimli's gut refused to accept any of these explanations. As he crested the hill and saw a troupe of kids out in the field, bows in hand, his heart leapt. Sure enough, there was the blond, moving gracefully through the ranks, straightening arms and squaring shoulders as his first line of archers took aim. If he had looked good in the dim, dusty light of the shop, he was a vision in the sunlight, a nugget of gold framed between blue sky and grass. Gimli wished he were a little skinnier so he could hide behind one of the trees on the front lawn and get his fill of that perfect ass. On Legolas' signal, the kids released their first volley of arrows, and as they bit into the straw targets his face split into a smile like polished quartz. Gimli swallowed hard. He ought to get going. Maybe spending the remainder of the day knee-deep in filthy groundwater would clear his head. As he grumpily turned the corner, he had the distinct feeling that it would be take a good deal more than that.

 

* * *

 

 

Friday rolled around at last, a gorgeous, sunny day that made Legolas as homesick as it made his students antsy. His head was pounding from shouting and defusing their little squabbles by the time he finally clicked the lock on the supply shed into place. To make matters worse, as he was collecting his bag and his paycheck (a silly gesture, really) his keen ears picked up a conversation between Arwen and Lindir, the music teacher and Elrond's personal assistant.

 

Apparently there was going to be a gathering after work at the Last Homely House – wine, tapas, and gifts to celebrate a successful end to the first quarter. Their sidelong, slightly abashed glances as he walked by told Legolas he was resolutely  _not_ on the guest list.

 

Only the thought of seeing his precious bow (as well as a handful of ibuprofen and a doubleshot skinny no-whip mocha latte) got Legolas through the miserable walk to Merchant Street. On a whim, he picked up a drink for Gimli as well, blindly guessing that he might be more of a black coffee man. He showed up fashionably late at 6:15, knocking the dusty front window with his elbow since his hands were full. As Gimli's ginger head emerged from behind the glass, Legolas noticed with a smirk that the claymore in the corner had been polished and set upon a stand closer to the glass. He secretly hoped that he had been at least partially responsible for its renewed prominence.

 

Gimli unlocked the door and ushered him inside the empty shop. It was odd, but he seemed different somehow upon their second meeting. The preoccupied frown that had creased his brow was gone, replaced with a rosy quality that was almost... jolly. Legolas cursed internally as his body responded to their closeness (and, it seemed, Gimli's good mood) in a totally inappropriate fashion. There was a glint in Gimli's green eyes that made Legolas even more eager to see his beloved bow.

 

“I hope that's not for me,” he said as Legolas set the two cups on the low counter. “It's a bit late for coffee, don't you think?” Despite his words, he was clearly pleased. “I usually take a little cream, though.”

 

“You're welcome,” Legolas replied, pulling his hair into a lazy ponytail. “After the day I've had, I needed some caffeine to keep myself from heading directly to bed.”

 

“Well, I've got just the thing to cheer you up,” Gimli said as he lifted the hatch on the counter and beckoned Legolas through a winding path of broken appliances and half-finished jobs. Legolas' nose twitched as he inhaled the smells of burnt solder, solvents, and tanning chemicals. Gimli flicked on a light and motioned Legolas into a small side room. He looked in, and an appreciative moan escaped his lips.

 

There, resting on a sheet of soft fabric, lay his new bow. For a moment, Legolas forgot completely that it was a replacement, and his heart was flooded with nostalgia and affection, memories of his father and their timeless days practicing in the wood. “Can I... touch it?” he breathed, inching closer to the display table. Gimli nodded.

 

Legolas picked up the bow gingerly – despite the ornamentation it was still light and supple in his hands. His fingers traced the delicate threads of metal that wound around the shaft like creeping vines, terminating in a graceful riot of minute leaves and flowers. Just above the grip, a silver stag was laid over the wood, its stern but kindly countenance so similar to his father's elegant sketches that a lump of homesickness formed in Legolas' throat. “Bugger me, it's beautiful,” he said, unable to take his eyes off the design. “How did – how in blazes did you do this?”

 

Gimli chuckled. “Very, very carefully,” he joked. “I'm glad you like it. Honestly, I was a bit worried...”

 

“Are you barmy? It's perfect!” Legolas' awe had energized him with the gleefulness of a child. He grinned at Gimli like an utter fool. “Thank you, thank you so much. This means... probably more than it should. How much do I owe you?”

 

Back at the front counter, Gimli wrote out a receipt on the shop's yellowed letterhead. He handed it to Legolas dismissively, as if he found the commercial part of his work distasteful. Legolas felt a bubble of mirth as he wrote out the check and passed it to Gimli, who frowned with consternation when he saw the total.

 

“You've written in one too many zeroes there, lad.”

 

Legolas smiled. “Consider it a tip.”

 

“You've got to be kidding –“ Gimli blustered, “you know I can't just –“

 

It turned out that Gimli's folk were not the sort of people to accept gratuities – only after several minutes of flustered resistance and the declaration that most of the excess would be distributed to elderly relatives did the now red-faced Gimli finally tuck the check into his back pocket.

 

“I don't like handouts,” he grumbled, despite Legolas' insistence that it was just compensation for extraordinary work. “At least let me buy you a drink or something...”

 

The thought struck Legolas like a ray of sunshine, and he felt the gloomy forecast of his evening dissolve with a tug of pleasant anticipation. “I'd be happy to go and have a drink with you, but you certainly don't need to buy it.”

 

“Have you ever been to... the Garden of Edan?” Gimli asked. Legolas failed to notice the trepidation in his voice.

 

“Yes, actually I have!” he answered cheerfully. He had stumbled in once before, during his first week in the city, and had stayed for a spell by himself, sipping a fruity drink and puzzling over the unusual clientele. “It's just down the street, isn't it?”

 

Gimli looked skeptical. “Yeah, it's a block away – are you _sure_ you've been there?”

 

“Of course. Lots of rainbows, dodgy 80's music, rather scantily-clad bartenders?”

 

Gimli blinked. “That's the one. I think they have three-dollar drafts on Fridays, but I don't remember. I only ever get down there when my folks are out of town.”

 

“Let me check.” Legolas stuck his head out the front door for a moment and squinted. “Three dollars for a pint of Green Dragon or Prancing Pony and two-for-one cocktails until eight o'clock.”

 

“How the hell did you read that? It's halfway down the street!” Gimli gaped.

 

“I have excellent eyesight. Shall we? Or do you have more closing up to do?”

 

“It can wait until Monday,” Gimli said, slinging a worn leather jacket over his broad shoulders. “You are full of surprises, laddie.”

 

* * *

 

The night was young, which meant that at the moment the clientele at the Garden's bar was decidedly not. A jovial, mellow horseshoe of aging queens and too-tan bachelors currently occupied the stools, sharing rumors and nursing colorful, half-price spirits. Beneath their gossiping, the jukebox in the corner cycled through an assortment of pride anthems and 80's power ballads. When Gimli and Legolas pushed aside the gaudy pink curtain of beads that separated the bar from the street in fair weather, there was a small riot among them. Legolas' hair turned cotton-candy pink in the neon light, and the cut of his clothes alone was enough to elicit a few appreciative noises from the peanut gallery. Gimli felt a surge of possessiveness that he quickly attempted to squelch. It was way out of line at this point in the game. He found a quiet table out of earshot, cozy and close to the empty stage. Legolas insisted that he hadn't the foggiest what to get, and so Gimli, who could not decide if the man's naiveté was feigned or not, clomped over to the bar to order for both of them.

 

It didn't take long before the two found themselves deep in conversation, and deeper in their cups than was respectable at eight o'clock, by Gimli's standards. But once Legolas had started talking about a custom order for a quiver he had lapped up the Green Dragon all too quickly. As the bar filled up with chatter and the first intrepid round of karaoke singers began their routine, Gimli's felt the familiar buzz of drink and the strange sensation of being both myopic and alert. He began to notice things – the lilt in Legolas' voice, the way his hair shone when he fussed with it, the way he kept leaning closer and closer to deliver a particularly good idea. _His_ delicate little apple-flavored drinks were disappearing pretty quickly, too. 

 

Eventually, it became too loud for conversation, and they switched to people-watching and halfheartedly singing along with the karaoke crowd. Gimli decided that his friend's innocence was indeed authentic – he was enchanted by the rainbow décor, mystified by the drag queens, and pleasantly transfixed by the male couples who dotted the bar in various stages of entanglement. Legolas slid his chair next to Gimli's to get a better view of the lyrics screen, and when their thighs pressed gently together, neither moved away. Gimli tried to focus on something, anything else, but his eyes were continually drawn to Legolas' slender hands, his streamlined profile, the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he quaffed yet another of those little green drinks. It seemed that he was leaning more heavily on Gimli as the night went on, laughing a little bit louder... maybe they should take it easy for a bit...

 

Legolas excused himself to the bathroom (the “loo”, Gimli snickered), but on his way out of his seat his balance deserted him, and he fell flat into Gimli's lap with a clang and a squawk. His chair toppled and locked his leg in a painful tangle. Cheeks burning under the eyes of the other patrons, Gimli did his best to extricate both of them without causing any more damage, physical or otherwise.

 

“My God, I'm so sorry,” Legolas tittered, more amused than he had any right to be now that his leg was at a natural angle again. “I guess I didn't realize... those apple things were just so _scrumptious..._ ”

 

 

The rush of adrenaline had, regrettably, sobered Gimli up, and he strained not to gnash his teeth. He cursed himself for not being more attentive. In a place like this, blonde, ignorant, and visibly tanked Legolas was perfect prey for some of the less ethical patrons. “Here, I'll walk you over,” he grumbled. Together, they stumbled to the men's room, Gimli eying the interior before standing outside with his arms crossed like a bouncer. He sighed. It had been a good first date – if you could call it that – but he had a feeling it might not come to a very pleasant end. A full-color fresco of himself crouched over a dirty toilet, holding back that long, blonde hair filled his grumpily hazy mind. It was definitely time to go home.

 

“Do they ever clean in there? Ugh, I've seen Tube stations cleaner than that,” Legolas gawked as he sashayed out of the swinging door.

 

Gimli stopped him with a gentle hand. “Look, I don't want you to take this the wrong way – it's been great – but can I take you home?”

 

For a moment, Legolas only stared blankly at him, doey eyes processing his words at an alarmingly low speed. Then he brightened. “To my place?” he asked airily.

 

“Uh, yeah.”

 

Legolas threw back his head and laughed. “Oh! Of course! I'd love for you to come over!” He threw an arm around Gimli's waist and proceeded to drag him in graceless zigzag towards the door. “You'll love it. There's a pool! And a gym! And I have all six seasons of _Xena_ on DVD!”

 

Gimli steered him through the beaded curtain and out onto the quiet street. He realized with a wince that neither of them had driven – he would have to walk all the way to Legolas' house, wherever that was. He discreetly fished the check out of his wallet and checked the address. Phew. It was only five or six blocks from the Garden, at most. Hopefully they could make it without any regurgitation... incidents.

 

Legolas wove his way erratically down the sidewalk, but it looked like the fresh air was doing him good. Eventually his gait returned to normal, though he had the annoying habit of brushing against Gimli's side every few paces. Gimli blamed the alcohol.

 

Looking up at the stars, Legolas gave a small sigh. “This,” he said, with more bravado than was really necessary, “has got to be one of the best nights of my life. Thank you, Gimli.”

 

Gimli did his best to hide the clench of emotion that had seized his gut. “It's nothing, you goof. Just a few drinks. You don't get out much, do you?”

 

For a brief span, Legolas' face darkened. “Never, actually. Not until I came here.” They turned the corner onto his street, a newly paved lane of historic houses lined with lighted trees. “My dad always tried to keep me from leaving home. I think he was afraid that if he let me go, he'd lose me. Like mum.”

 

Gimli paused, but his tongue could not find the right words. “I'm sorry,” he said lamely.

 

“I never knew her,” Legolas replied with a shrug. “It's more the idea of her that I miss. But Ada always did a good job.” They strolled down the street, and Gimli took note of the numbers as they climbed. “Your family seems pretty close-knit,” Legolas continued. “I think it'd be grand to have so many people around. It's like a big party!”

 

Gimli let out a grunt that was perhaps a bit too harsh. “More like a big charity shop,” he scoffed. “I can't go more than a day or two without having to run errands or fix someone's burst pipes or work on a damn car –“

 

“But surely they do things for you, too!” Legolas countered.

 

“Eh, occasionally,” Gimli admitted. “Da tells me I'm a pushover, though. Says if I was more of an ass they'd leave me alone.” He kicked a pebble out into the street, where it skipped and spun all the way to a grate. “They're all right, I guess. But I could use a break once in a while.”

 

The house came into view, and Legolas sidled up to the front door, fumbling with his keys while Gimli gaped at the topiaries and bubbling fountain. He knew the guy was rich, but this was ridiculous...

 

“Well, are you coming in?” Legolas was perched in the doorway, grinning at him like an oversized imp. Gimli felt his heart beat faster. What a tease.

 

Gimli followed into the house's ostentatious foyer, marveling at the giant chandelier and the plush wall-to-wall carpet. It was the same cool sage green as Legolas' man-purse, which lay in a camouflaged heap by the door. The smell of fresh herbs and citrus wafted towards him from a reed diffuser, and a neat row of nearly-identical suede boots sat like amateur art beneath. Gimli hung his coat on a hook and followed the sounds of clinking and rummaging into a spacious kitchen, where Legolas was firing up an overpowered gas stove and smearing butter on a thick piece of bread.

 

“What do you think?” Legolas asked. He pulled a hefty slab of cheese from a fancy-looking package and placed it between two slices of bread before dropping it into a frying pan with a sizzle.

 

“It's nuts,” Gimli said. “You should rent it out for film crews. You live here all by yourself?” He thought of his own home, cozy but cluttered and cramped as a rabbit warren with his parents, siblings, and a revolving door of visiting cousins. If nothing else, befriending Legolas might give him a place to get some peace and quiet, he thought with a smirk.

 

“That's right. It's just me, and my delicious grilled cheese...” He slid the sandwich onto a plate with a startling look of lust. “Swiss, asiago, or gouda?”

 

“What? You don't have to make one for me,” Gimli laughed.

 

“Oh yes I do,” Legolas brandished his spatula at Gimli's chest. “My house, my rules. Well?”

 

“I don't care, whatever.” Gimli hoisted himself up onto one of the stools surrounding the kitchen island. “I'm not picky.”

 

They slumped in a half-drunken, half-tired stupor over their makeshift dinner, enjoying the warmth from the cooling stove and the perfectly melted cheese. “You're a good cook,” Gimli said through a mouthful of crunchy toast.

 

Legolas had to cover his mouth to keep from spraying crumbs at him. “Au contraire. This is the only thing I know how to make that doesn't have the instructions printed on the box. And even then, it's dodgy...” He swallowed the last bite and gave a tremendous yawn, even going so far as to lay his head down next to his plate. Gimli was torn between thinking it was endearing and getting the hell out of there before he got thrown up on.

 

“Are you okay? You pounded that pretty fast...”

 

“I'm fine, I'm just so _tired_ all of a sudden. I'm a bad host...” he yawned again, eyelids drooping.

 

Gimli decided he would stick with 'endearing'. “You're going to go down in a pile. Let's get you to bed.” He hopped down from the stool and gently lifted Legolas into a standing position. His body felt so light, and his shirt so soft, it was like lifting something that could already float.

 

“Okay,” Legolas said sleepily. He allowed himself to be led up the stairs like a child, and stood in a pleasant fog in the upper hall while Gimli groped for the light and found his room.

 

The room was cute, too cute, really, to belong to an almost 30-year-old man, but the leafy stencils on the wall and the hodgepodge of exotic potted flowers made Gimli smile anyway. He sloughed Legolas off onto the great mound of green blankets and pillows and yanked off his boots with little protest. Then he lay a comforter over his friend, and pulled the wastebasket to the bedside, just in case. “If you have to york, do it in there,” he cautioned with a glint of humor. “It'd be a shame to spoil one of these hundred-dollar pillows you got here."

 

“Mm.” Legolas snuggled into the covers, his hair a spray of gold. “Thanks, mate.” With great effort, he opened his eyes a sliver. “Promise we'll do this again?”

 

Gimli stiffened, his heart offering him a few phenomenally stupid things to blurt, which he quickly rejected. “Not the yorking part,” he said with a smirk. “Good night, lad. See you around.” With one long glance at Legolas' peaceful face – he was asleep already, the brat – he tiptoed out into the hallway and shut the door. He made a quick stop in the upstairs bathroom, and was not entirely surprised to spot a tube of concealer on the counter by the soap and toothbrush. On a wild impulse, he scribbled his cell number on the mirror before scurrying out of the house with butterflies in his stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

 

* * *

 

 

Days turned into weeks, and soon autumn had come to Edan in its full regalia of gold, amber and scarlet. Legolas found himself spending more and more time kibitzing at the counter of Durin's Depot, sipping his favorite apple drink (in moderation, of course) at the Garden, and in the passenger seat of Gloin's ancient, wood-paneled station wagon. Legolas followed Gimli about in a way that he would have thought insufferable, were it not for the constant (if gruff) invitations. Gimli had been truthful the night of their first sortie – his family _was_ an indefatigable source of errands and repairs – but the weight of their demands seemed lighter when Legolas came along. By the end of October, he had helped install a new gas line for Dis, made trips to the warehouse for sheets of leather and tin, and even baked a pie for Balin at the old folk's home and spent a full day doing jigsaw puzzles and listening to stories about the old days. The more Legolas learned about Gimli's family, the more he felt ensconced by their gruff, boisterous warmth and their busy energy. It was a big departure from the cool detachment of his father, and he soon forgot what life was like without it.

 

Occasionally the two would chance upon a day that was free of both work and family commitments, and they began to spend time together without uncles and cousins in tow. At Halloween they visited the Paths of the Dead, a haunted house which Gimli entered with much bluster but had to be nearly carried out, shaking and mute, by an only slightly-amused Legolas. They tried horseback riding, lounged by the pool (though Gimli never swam), and competed ruthlessly in every amateur sport there was and not a few board games. Legolas estimated he had lost enough money to Gimli in poker to finance a new wing on the Depot. Sometimes, when the competition was over, they would climb to the roof of Legolas' house and sit, propped against the giant chimney, gazing at the stars. Legolas taught him how to recognize the constellations, and happily regaled him with the mythology of each one. Gimli told him stories of his childhood, of making toys out of junk and working in the coal mines before his family risked everything to start a business in Edan. It seemed that they could never run out of things to share with one another, that they could never get close enough.

 

But Legolas' dreams were troubled. His mind showed him things while he slept that he could never say aloud, things that made him wake with a jolt, drenched in sweat and in his own unfamiliar seed. He knew that it was wrong. All his life, Ada had told him not to think about it, to push those nasty thoughts away like the sickness that they were. But something deep inside him refused to be silenced. Gimli was just a friend, he told himself, standing once again in the icy cold shower. Just a friend. Nothing more.

 

Legolas blamed himself for the change. It must have been his fault that their time together felt suddenly strained, uncomfortable. It couldn't have been Gimli – Gimli, who always showed up on time, who always came prepared, with a six-pack or the right-sized wrench, who was as dependable and comforting as grilled cheese. It was this thing, this ugly, dark thing that was trying to get out, telling him to touch where he shouldn't, showing him all the terrible things their bodies could do when he was supposed to be paying attention. It made his jaw clench. He began to hate himself, and Gimli must have thought the hatred was for him.

 

“Don't take this the wrong way,” Gimli said one particularly starry evening, draining his beer as they sat on the rooftop. “But it's okay if you want... you know, some space.”

 

Legolas was glad the darkness would hide the flush of shame on his cheeks. Space was the last thing he wanted... and, said the voice of Ada in his mind, probably exactly what he needed. He had been calling his father less and less since he became an honorary member of Durin's folk, and he thought that his emotional dependence on his father was actually approaching normal human levels. But he knew that even the faintest flicker on his face would tell Thranduil everything he needed to know. That his son was a freak. That there would be no grandchildren. No illustrious line to inherit the estate. He scowled into the dark. “That's kind of you to say, but no,” he stalled. “I guess... I don't know what I want. I'm sorry.”

 

Gimli blew at the top of his empty bottle, a hollow, mournful sound. It had made Legolas laugh, once. “You don't owe me anything, you know,” he said. “You've been spending a lot of time with me and my folks. And you've been working with those little ankle-biters, too. It must get overwhelming for a country mouse like yourself. My family has been driving me crazy, too, and I'm used to it.”

 

_Country mouse._ Legolas' brain, which was on the verge of shorting out trying to extinguish his unsavory thoughts, sparked at the thought. God, he hadn't even realized how much he'd missed the woods. The smell of trees, the feel of grass between his toes, the innocent joy of running through the trails... surely the woods would cure him. 

 

“Do you want to come camping with me?” he blurted. A split-second later he realized what an utter dimwit he had been. _Bringing Gimli to the woods? Sleeping in the same bloody tent?_ But it was too late – Gimli's face had already brightened into a thoughtful frown.

 

“Are you kidding? That'd be perfect. I haven't been camping in ages.” Legolas watched in horror as Gimli spun his proposal into a full-fledged itinerary. “What about Fangorn? We can catch fish and grill 'em over the fire, hike the mountain trails, I can whittle... and you're such a tree-hugger, I'm sure you'll love it. I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner!”

 

Legolas smiled weakly as his insides turned to a sludge of dread. “Perfect,” he lied. “It'll be perfect.”

 

* * *

 

The morning was clear and sunny when Gimli finally pulled into the gravel driveway of Fangorn State Park. An earthy, pine-scented breeze drifted into the cabin of the station wagon and ruffled Gimli's sweaty mass of hair pleasantly. He cast a sidelong glance at his friend and smirked at the childlike grin that had broken out upon his face. The gleam in Legolas' eyes made his hips twitch atop the dusty upholstery of his seat. They checked in at the gate, a humble, unmanned kiosk, and lumbered down the uneven path until their campsite emerged from behind a veil of trees. The hatchback swung open and they busied themselves with unpacking, Legolas raising the tent with Eagle Scout efficiency while Gimli rearranged the cooler and chewed on a strip of jerky. Legolas' contented humming grew louder as he strung a clothesline and began to inflate the airbed. Soon he was singing his little heart out as if he were the only one in the park:

 

_♪_ I was made for sunny days   
I made do with gray, but I didn't stay   
I was made for sunny days   
And I was made for you ♪

 

Gimli watched, surreptitiously at first, but when it became clear how oblivious his companion was, he merely sat back on the edge of the trunk and drank it in. Though his musical taste was decidedly goofy at times, Legolas' voice was clear as ringing steel, and when he rose into the higher register it took on a spritely quality that made Gimli's insides clench. He pulled a rolled-up picnic blanket into his lap in the hopes that it would cover his enthusiasm. When Legolas finally noticed his gaze, Gimli had the good sense to pass it off as impatience, grumbling something about losing the daylight.

 

When everything was loaded into the tent, or stowed within easy reach under the worn picnic table, Legolas traded his sneakers for a pair of those silly trail shoes with individuated toes. Gimli tried his damnedest to come up with some sort of amphibian joke, but the sight of Legolas bending over in those form-fitting Rivendell Academy shorts turned his tongue to lead. Legolas bounced on his heels like a kid. “It's so shady here - I'm going to find the sun! And figure out where the bath house is,” he cheerfully announced, tucking the park map into one of those nifty little pockets. He took off like a deer into the woods, blonde hair trailing behind him like some sort of nymph. Gimli settled into a camp chair with the latest _National Geographic_ and treated himself to a long, unapologetic smoke, feeling quite grateful that things were off to such a pleasant start despite Legolas' recent apprehension.

 

The day passed slowly without the absorption of work or the endless clamor of his family life, and Gimli found that after a while he quite enjoyed the silence and freedom of the woods. He allowed Legolas to lead him on a short hike of gently rolling hills and short waterfalls, delightedly pointing out camouflaged birds and far-off deer that Gimli could barely see. At twilight, the mosquitoes made their debut, and while they, maddeningly, seemed to ignore Legolas, Gimli was forced to spray every inch of his skin until he was rank with DEET. Under the pretense of warding them off, he built an excessively large and ornate campfire, but after some gentle prodding from Legolas he had to admit it was more for his own enjoyment than for practical reasons. Gimli feasted on charred sausages and bread, which Legolas sampled approvingly, though he stuck to his trail mix and a few blackened sweet peppers. They made a healthy dent in the first case of beer, and by the time the evening dew fell, Gimli's cheeks were much too rosy to notice the chill.

 

When the fire died down and pleasant drunkenness turned to drowsiness, they wet the ashes and piled into the tent, laughing at their own clumsiness as they shamelessly shucked their smoky clothes and pulled on fresh, if slightly damp pajamas. Maybe it was the beer, or the respite from the pressures of home, or something else entirely, but as Gimli drifted off, he thought this simple day might have been one of the best of his life. He fell asleep to the quiet buzz of Legolas' headphones, and when the mattress sagged in the night and their bodies sank together, neither one bothered to move away.

 

* * *

 

Gimli woke to the trill of birds and the sweet, dark smell of coffee wafting in through the mesh window. He thanked his blood alcohol level for the restful night's sleep – if he had been sober, every twitch and shuffle in the forest would probably have woken him. He stretched, ignoring the protestations of his lower back, and crawled clumsily out of the tent flap. Legolas was lounging atop the picnic table, two steaming mugs on the bench below him. He hopped up with that effortless, feline grace, and held out the larger of the two to Gimli.

 

“Cream, no sugar?” he asked, his face aglow. Was he just happy to be in the woods again? Or was that smile for him?

 

Gimli nodded and took a grateful sip, shivering as the heat trickled down his throat and into his belly. The dew had gotten into his clothes, making his skin feel clammy and chilled. He heard a sizzle and looked over Legolas' shoulder, where he noticed a pan full of eggs and bacon over the rekindled fire. “What's all this?” he exclaimed. “You don't even eat that stuff!”

 

“I'll have some,” Legolas chided. “I was bored.” He gamboled over to the fire and flipped the crackling slices.

 

Gimli wasn't buying it. “Nature boy comes to the state's largest, most famous park and after one day, you're bored?” He scoffed as he pulled two place settings from a crate and laid them out on the table. “You're trying to butter me up, I can feel it.”

 

Legolas seemed to tense for a moment, but he shook it off so quickly that Gimli decided he must have imagined it. He brought the pan over and served him a hot, heaping breakfast. It was a little burned, but not bad for someone whose repertoire was limited to drunken grilled cheese. Legolas sat down and started cutting up his lone egg into tiny bites. “You don't miss anything, do you? Actually, I _was_ hoping I could twist your arm a bit.” He made a face that would have looked stupid on anyone else and said nothing more, taking a bite of egg with false bravado.

 

Gimli responded with his best death stare, though it was hard to square his jaw with so much food in his mouth. “I ain't climbing no trees,” he finally said when he had swallowed.

 

Suddenly, Legolas reached forward and brushed his fingers against Gimli's cheek. Every nerve in Gimli's body instantly awoke at the contact, but before he had the chance to react, Legolas' fingers came away holding a tiny piece of yolk. “You had something in your beard,” he said, sounding strangely embarrassed. Gimli clutched his fork and knife tightly, trying to rein in his body's frantic signals. He watched Legolas wipe his fingers on a flannel and tried to push away the unforeseen urge to clean them off himself.

 

It was shortly after midday when they crested the height of the advanced Rauros Falls trail, and the sun pounded them relentlessly between brief patches of shade. The hike was taking much longer than the map's estimate, mostly due to Legolas' urgent need to stop and celebrate the unique beauty of every tree, flower, and unusual mushroom like a modern Druid. Gimli, who had volunteered to carry the pack with their lunch and other gear, was growing increasingly irritable. Though he had begun the hike feeling well-fed and eager, his mood had declined steadily as his clothes became more and more soaked in sweat and swarming gnats got caught in his beard. He dusted Legolas and trudged along the steps until, at last, a timeworn bench came into view. There was an odd rushing sound in the distance, but Gimli ignored it.

 

Legolas scampered up the final stair a few minutes later, no trace of exertion or fatigue on his damnably pretty face. Gimli continued to waft his drenched shirt like a flag of surrender. “Isn't it beautiful?” Legolas said in wonder as he toed off his ridiculous shoes and waded into the adjacent stream.

 

Gimli huffed. “It's _something,_ ” he grumbled. A veritable army of gnats were converging on his scalp, and his irritation was quickly devolving into rage. He swatted to no avail.

 

“You're kidding,” came Legolas' reply. “The waterfall? That doesn't do anything for you?”

 

Gimli looked up. In his cranky stupor, he'd forgotten all about it.

 

“Oh.”

 

A hundred stories above him, Rauros thundered down the gorge in a breathtaking cascade of power and white froth. It was the most massive waterfall Gimli had ever seen in person. The water surged over a handful of stray outcroppings of rock, creating smaller, more hospitable-looking falls that ended in pools of crystalline blue.

 

Legolas rose out of the water, the hems of his shorts dark with moisture. His eyes sparkled as he held out his hands toward Gimli. “The water's lovely,” he coaxed. “Will you come in with me?”

 

Gimli bristled. Despite the heat and the bugs, the thought of getting in the water sent a spike of fear into his gut. “I don't swim,” he said gruffly, though he could not take his eyes off the inviting – gorgeous, there, he said it – form of Legolas waiting for him, reaching for him -

 

“You could learn,” Legolas said with a voice that was as welcoming as it was cajoling. “I could teach you.” He came closer, so that his head was level with Gimli's belly as he stood on the bank. “It might be fun.”

 

“It might be the last thing I ever do,” Gimli shot back, though his resolve was crumbling.

 

Legolas scoffed. “Did you forget that I'm a certified lifeguard?” he chided, resting his hands on the toes of Gimli's sweaty boots. “Elrond trusts me with his little brainiacs, why shouldn't you? I bet it would feel just grand to cool off... and get the gnats to leave you alone for a bit...”

 

Gimli stared bleakly at the water, silent.

 

“Well?”

 

Gimli looked down into his eyes, bright with the reflected light of the stream, and found something there, something deeper than the eagerness of a coach or the good-natured expectation of a friend. His breath caught.

 

He pulled the ruined shirt over his head and slipped off his boots and socks. He held on, probably much too tightly, to Legolas' hands as he slipped gingerly into the water.

 

The relief was immediate. Brisk but not unpleasantly cold, the water lapped around his calves and climbed up the fabric of his shorts as his toes dug into the sandy soil. Legolas was watching him expectantly, still held fast in his grip. After a few minutes of standing in the refreshing, easy current, Gimli began to think that maybe this swimming business wasn't so awful.

 

“All right?” Legolas asked, the ghost of a smile forming on his lips.

 

“I think so.”

 

“Brilliant.” Legolas pulled him gently toward the falls, and Gimli stepped awkwardly after him. The soil was solid enough, but the water became deeper as they approached the smallest pool and soon it was up to his waist.

 

Gimli hesitated. He hated himself for being so scared. Damn Legolas for being so hard to turn down, and damn himself for being such a pushover. He cast a skeptical glance at his companion and planted his feet. “I don't like the look of that pool,” he said.

 

“No problem,” Legolas answered, to his surprise. Slowly, Legolas extricated himself from Gimli's grip, until he was standing in the water on his own. For a moment, he worried he would be swept away, but the current was not strong enough, and he mastered his fear. Legolas' gaze never left him, for which he felt both comforted and painfully self-conscious.

 

“The good news,” Legolas began with a laugh, “is that fat floats. You can float on your back in the water without much effort at all. Here, I'll show you.” In one swift motion, Legolas drew his legs up and spread his arms until he was floating on the surface like a four-pointed starfish. He lifted his head and smiled at Gimli from this position before snapping back upright.

 

“If fat floats, how do _you_ stay up?” Gimli teased, proud of himself for finding levity despite his nerves. Legolas chuckled and reached down to support his shoulders with one arm and his hips with another.

 

“Ready?” Legolas asked, and Gimli nodded weakly. Gently he lifted Gimli's hips until he was lying horizontally on the surface of the stream. A thrill of trust burned through Gimli's veins, mingled with fear and made all the more potent for it. He searched for Legolas' gaze and found it, full of pride and, he hoped, genuine affection. “Arch your back a little,” Legolas murmured, and Gimli chased off a wave of dirty thoughts as he tried to concentrate on floating properly. Legolas patiently crooned a stream of directions in his ear. “Put your arms out, that's it, brilliant, now stay just like that, and if you start to go down remember I've got you. I'm going to let go on three- ready, one, two, three!”

 

Suddenly Legolas' anchoring hands were gone, and for a terrifying, shining moment, Gimli was suspended by his own buoyancy on the crystal surface. He felt a surge of pride and adrenaline at how _easy_ it was – he scolded himself for wasting so many vacations hiding from the water like an infant. He could get used to this. But the joy did not last. Suddenly his heavy shorts started to drag his body down, and he panicked, splashing and spluttering for air with a sudden cry. Legolas scooped him into his arms and held him close until he stopped kicking, getting a faceful of water as he frantically entreated Gimli to calm down.

 

“Gimli!” he cried. “For goodness' sake! The water's three feet deep! You can stand up, remember?” Gimli, who was still panting hard into his chest, suddenly realized this and clambered down.

 

“I knew that.” For a moment, he glared at Legolas, until the two of them burst into a gale of laughter. Gimli wheezed at the absurdity of it, pulling his frizzy, wet mane into a bundle behind his head.

 

“It's fine,” Legolas chortled. “Actually, it was... sort of adorable.” He combed his own damp hair nervously with his fingers, looking at the falls. “Thanks for coming out here with me. I don't mean just the water, I mean – the whole thing. It means a lot.”

 

“A trip for a trip,” Gimli said, “Don't forget, you're still coming to the gem mines at Algarond with me! You promised in the car!” The softness in Legolas' expression made it very difficult not to reach for him – fortunately he was pinned to the spot for fear of sinking again.

 

“Of course, but you know what I mean,” Legolas replied. “It's not just the place, it's... I feel like I could do just about anything, as long as it was with you.”

 

Gimli's throat felt suddenly tight. “Uh, yeah, same here.” He shifted uncomfortably, his submerged shorts moving like lazy jellyfish. “Listen, I'm going to go get lunch – do you want to have a swim first?”

 

Legolas smiled with an unnerving hint of smugness. He seemed to have turned a corner somehow – although something was still not quite right, he seemed much more at ease out here in the woods. “Sure thing,” he said. “See you in a bit!” He waded away a few paces before slipping soundlessly into the water. Gimli watched his blurry silhouette swim around the pool a couple of times before he made his way back to dry land and the promise of food.

 

* * *

 

Crickets sang and distant frogs croaked beyond the swish of leaves and scuttling nighttime hunters outside the tent. It had only been two days, but Gimli had already forgotten the sounds of the city. It wasn't the twilit cavern of his personal daydreams, but he was pretty damn happy in these woods, surrounded by the shelter of trees and stars and the gentle weight of Legolas against his back. He would have preferred that weight at his _front_ , and doing something a little more active than listening to another podcast, but he was trying to be content. It was not his desire to turn straight boys to the dark side, or to drag anyone out of the closet. It was obvious that Legolas was working through something big, but Gimli was a craftsman, not a therapist, and he would limit his services to those of a friend until directed otherwise.

 

Still, the weekend had given him plenty of images to tuck away for a rainy day. And that _voice_... the memory of Legolas' idle singing alone would have been enough to get his rocks off. That was the thing about him, though – the youthful innocence that no one could fake. That was what got Gimli's heart rate up. Nobody had that anymore, certainly not Gimli, for whom relationships of all kinds had been a series of transactions that usually left him short.

 

He wanted Legolas to help him remember the joy of being a kid at heart, to take back the trust in life that he had forgotten. He wanted to stop thinking about all his goddamned obligations for once and be wholly, consumptively awestruck by the beauty of life.

 

Legolas stirred beside him. “Gimli,” he whispered, his voice strangely thick. “Can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” Legolas shuffled around until his nose was buried in Gimli's hair, his slender hand alighting like a nervous bird on Gimli's flank.

  
“I'm sorry I've been such a chicken,” he began, hot breath pooling at the back of Gimli's neck. “I just... I've been thinking, and the truth is, I really like you.”

 

Gimli turned over with as much grace as he could muster until they were nose-to-nose upon the sagging airbed. His forearms curled between them, though he longed to reach out and stroke Legolas' hair (or grab his rear, for that matter). “I like you, too, but I meant what I said,” he whispered. “You don't owe me anything.”

 

Suddenly Legolas gave a sniffle, and Gimli noticed a trickle of tears had spilled from his eyes across his face. “I know,” he breathed, “but I _want_ to... I'm just so bloody _scared-”_ He turned his face into the mattress with a muffled sob. Gimli wrapped his arms around him as far as they would go and held on for a long moment.

 

“Hey,” he finally soothed, “It's okay to be scared. This stuff _is_ scary.” He smoothed Legolas' hair and wiped away some tears with the back of his finger. Legolas' eyes looked inky and liquid in the veiled moonlight. “You don't have to do anything. Your dad doesn't have to know. Whatever you need is fine, okay?”

 

Legolas tried to get his composure back. “Okay,” he repeated as he swallowed a fresh wave of tears. His soft fingers alit on Gimli's face and began to stroke his cheeks and comb through his beard. “Is it all right if... can I kiss you?”

 

The many hairs on the back of Gimli's neck stood straight up. This was a pleasant and wholly unexpected turn of events. Just the thought of not having to stifle his urges and comments and wandering hands for once was intoxicating. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Of course.”

 

Legolas leaned forward and cupped Gimli's jaw in his long, slender hand. His lips hesitated a hairbreadth away from Gimli's, as if fighting a last tremor of indecision, and then brushed his in a way that was both clumsy and searingly arousing. Gimli found that he could be surprisingly patient, letting Legolas flutter over him teasingly as a butterfly, until he seemed to decide that he was ready for more. As he felt Legolas' weight and ardor grow behind the kisses, Gimli's body quickly shook off its sleepy torpor. Soon his hands were buried in that silky, soft hair and his knee was wedged between Legolas' legs, gravity and the slowly-deflating mattress pressing their bodies together.

 

Gimli was happy to discover that for all his purity and shelteredness, Legolas was a natural. He had obviously been wanting this for a long time – they both had – and his body seemed to move without any direction from his head, or from Gimli for that matter. Once the first-time trepidation had melted away, Legolas' hands were everywhere, sliding hungrily over his skin as if to measure every last inch. Gimli groaned happily into his shoulder as his nerves came alive wherever Legolas touched. Legolas slid his fingers into the thick hair of Gimli's chest and tugged, tickled his sides, ghosted over the sensitive insides of his elbows. In a few moments Gimli felt ready to burst. He wriggled out of his modest pajamas, and Legolas did the same, rocking the flimsy airbed so much that they fell on each other in a laughing heap. Then Gimli was pressing their bodies together, skin to skin, savoring the strange coolness of Legolas' smooth stomach on his chest. He reached down and pulled off Legolas' silk briefs, running his hands greedily over the soft skin of his ass. When his hands came around to the front, gently taking hold of his stiffening cock, Legolas melted into him with a whimper.

 

“Oh, my God... Gimli... I can't believe I'm doing this...” Legolas' voice wavered.

 

Gimli let go and slid upwards so that he could see his companion's face in the dim moonlight. “Does it feel good?” he asked, stroking Legolas' cheek. No tears this time. That was a good sign. “Do you want to keep going?”

 

Legolas stared at him hard, his eyes wide with fear as much as arousal. He wrapped his arms around Gimli and slowly lowered his hips until his bare skin was pressed against Gimli's boxers. For a long moment, the only movement was their breathing, hot and close in the tiny tent. Gimli ran his hands lightly over Legolas' back.

 

Finally, Legolas spoke. “Yeah, I do. I do want to.” He tilted his hips forward experimentally, crushing their cocks together with only a thin barrier of fabric. Gimli grunted and groped for purchase – his hands found Legolas' slender waist and held on tight. Legolas nipped him gently, starting at his earlobe and trailing down his neck all the way to a nipple, which he rolled maddeningly between his teeth. Gimli arched into him and tried to find a way to shimmy out of his underwear without moving anything else. Legolas pulled them down for him, taking a moment to gaze wonderingly at his erection. “It's huge,” he breathed, gently cupping Gimli's balls in his hand as if measuring them. “You-you're beautiful.”

 

Gimli snorted. “You're not so bad yourself,” he huffed. “But it's not a competition. Come here.”

 

“No, not yet” Legolas said, settling his elbows on either side of Gimli's thighs. “I want to – taste you. Is that okay?” He gave a sheepish smile. “I've been thinking about it a lot lately.”

 

Gimli stifled a laugh. “If you want,” he replied. “I guess I _did_ go swimming a few hours ago... but if I've got camp crotch you'd best come back up.”

 

“You're ridiculous,” Legolas huffed. He placed his hands at the base of Gimli's cock, holding back the great tuft of hair that sprouted around it, and licked his lips. Just the sight of him was enough to make Gimli leak, but when his mouth finally descended, it was slow torture of the very best kind. _No teeth, no teeth –_ the words were poised on the tip of Gimli's tongue, but they were unnecessary – obviously someone had done his research. Legolas took him fully into his mouth in one slow stroke, the head of his cock brushing the back of Legolas' throat with a jolt of perfect pleasure. Legolas' lips were soft and full, and they squeezed his base in a way that made it very difficult to sit still. He made a few more trips up and down Gimli's length, testing, listening, learning his shape and girth. Then, just as Gimli was about to bark out something rude, he started to _move._

 

This was more than beginner's luck, Gimli thought. He wondered what sort of practice Legolas had had before this trip... Vegetables? Toys? A dozen jokes popped into his head, but the power of speech deserted him with each stroke and gentle squeeze of his scrotum. He growled, petting Legolas' soft hair and trying not to yank it the way he really wanted to. Legolas seemed to be enjoying himself as well – the vibrations of his own moans lending another layer of stimulation to Gimli's cock. It was all he could do to keep still, to keep himself from thrusting up and choking his partner with each wonderfully agonizing movement.

 

At last they found a rhythm. The hand holding back his hair abandoned its post and roved from nipples to neck to stroking his perineum, while the other rolled his balls with steady pressure. Gimli was lost to it now, his fingers curling in Legolas' hair, his eyes squeezed shut against his oncoming orgasm. He let himself go, let his hips fly up, up to meet that sweet, wet mouth, smeared with his own juices, moaning for him, crying out for him, one more thrust and he was coming, and his spraying cock bobbed out of Legolas' mouth and into his waiting hands, which stroked and clenched around him until he was shaking and spent.

 

Gimli pulled Legolas on top of him, not caring that he was a good foot and a half taller or that his legs bobbed uselessly over the edge of the mattress. Legolas was shaking, too, and Gimli felt suddenly guilty for demanding such exertion. Their limbs interlocked without a thought, arms twining around each other's shoulders and legs twisting together like tree roots. Gimli rode through one final aftershock before plundering Legolas' mouth in a deep kiss, filled with his own taste and scent. A long moment later, they broke apart, breathless and dripping.

 

“And you said _I'm_ the ridiculous one?” Gimli ground out. Legolas chuckled. “I can't believe that was your first time. You certainly did your homework...”

 

Legolas nestled his head in the crook of Gimli's arm, even though the angle was awkward. “I read a lot of books as a kid,” he said softly, with such genuine matter-of-factness that it made Gimli roar with laughter.

 

“”You'll have to give me the titles,” he joked. “In any case, I believe I owe you something?” He sidled downwards and reached for Legolas' cock, but was shocked to find it flaccid and calm. He looked back up at his partner. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Did I kill the mood?”

 

“God, no,” Legolas laughed. “I – when I was sucking you, I – it just sort of... happened.” He paused, suddenly worried. “Is that normal?”

 

Gimli clapped him reassuringly on the back. “I don't know about normal, lad, but impressive? Definitely.” Since he was no longer needed, he occupied himself with gently rubbing his hands over the length of Legolas' body, reaching whatever he could – neck, shoulders, back, legs – and drawing contented little sighs from his companion. “But I've told you before, I don't take handouts. Will you take a rain check? Tomorrow morning?”

 

Legolas curled against him like a cat. “I wouldn't say no,” he crooned, letting his hand come to rest on Gimli's hip. Within minutes, they were asleep, blissfully oblivious to the symphony of night sounds and the distant, steady roar of the falls.

 

* * *

 

Gimli sat on his stool in Legolas' kitchen, a half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich and the August edition of _National Geographic_ laid out on the table before him. Since their trip to Fangorn, the months had flown by. Gimli had been working overtime to get the weekends off so that he could spend more time with Legolas, at the house, on the road, and in the sack. Their lives had melted together like iron and carbon flowing into steel - the closer they got, the stronger and more solid they both felt. Gimli's family had been surprisingly quick to accept their newest "nephew", especially when the addition to the family came with rich dinners out and a checkbook that was ever at the ready. Gimli could scarcely believe his luck. For all his naiveté and princely manners, Legolas was perfect. They made each other laugh, and they traveled and worked and fucked with a harmony he had not really thought was possible. But things hadn't been going so well with Legolas' father. Legolas was a bad liar, and deceiving his dad had made him touchy and irritable. Finally, a few short weeks before he was expected to fly home, he had decided to come clean. 

 

Gimli kept his eyes trained blankly on the beautiful quartz formations in the magazine, but his mind was in the next room, where he could hear the muffled sounds of a heated conversation. He tried not to listen, but his heart was cringing with every word his ears picked up.

 

“–Ada, I'm not talking about a friend–“

 

“–you know bloody well what I mean!”

 

“You can't do that! You – you just can't!”

 

“Fine! Well if I'm going I guess I'll see you there, too!”

 

“You don't mean that.”

 

“Ada, listen. Please...”

 

“Ada?”

 

A few minutes of silence passed, each one dragging out interminably for Gimli. At last, he could stand it no longer. He abandoned his sandwich and cautiously pushed open the office door. Legolas was sitting with his back turned, a blank computer screen in front of him. His shoulders were quivering.

 

“Hey.” Gimli took a tentative step into the room.

 

“Hey.” Legolas' voice was broken and hoarse.

 

“How'd it go?” Gimli asked, though he already knew.

 

Legolas sniffled and sat back in the chair, his hair falling in a hopeless cascade. “He said he's going to freeze my assets,” he choked out. “Until I 'come to my senses'. And he said –“ Legolas gave a dry sob – “he said not to bother coming home. He said... it's over.” At this, the floodgates opened, and Gimli rushed to him as he started to cry openly.

 

“What an ass,” Gimli said, planting soothing kisses across Legolas' hairline and gently rubbing his back. “He'll change his mind, he's got to. You're too good for him, anyway.”

 

Legolas stroked Gimli's beard to calm himself down. “But he's my _dad,_ ” he wept. “I love him. Even if he's an arse.” He sniffed. “He said I've ruined his life...”

 

Gimli took Legolas squarely by the shoulders. “Now you listen to me,” he said firmly. Legolas gaped at him, briefly shocked out of tears. “You deserve to be happy. If your dad can't see that yet, that's his problem, not yours. He'll come around, and if he doesn't, well, you'll always have a place to go and a family that loves you.” Gimli gave a smile that he did not quite feel. “Even if you have to come along while I change their air filters and fix their computers.”

 

Legolas' mouth turned up at one corner. “Thanks, mate,” he said weakly. He pulled Gimli into his lap and was claimed in a deep kiss that Gimli hoped would wipe the bad taste of his father's wrath from his mouth. “Someday,” Legolas said, “when this all blows over, I'd love for you to come and visit him, across the pond. He's not so bad... I think once he met you, he'd like you. He has a huge collection of medieval weapons and armor and all that. You'd go absolutely mad.”

 

Gimli nuzzled his neck and felt a glimmer of hope light up his companion's face. “Yeah," he murmured. "I'd like that.”

 


End file.
